


Recall and Recoil

by Nefhiriel



Series: Intersecting Lines [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Angst, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Companionable Snark, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Snark, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers & Tony Stark Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels, Trust Issues, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:01:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Steve and Sam are ready to give up the hunt, they find a Winter Soldier waiting on their doormat.</p><p>He's fine. Steve's fine. They're both <i>just fine</i>. (By now Sam's more than a little familiar with the stubbornness of self-deluded super soldiers and super assassins, so he lets it slide. Mostly.)</p><p>OR</p><p>Bucky is not a feral cat (except he is), Steve would never (consciously) try to to pay penance for letting Bucky fall, and Tony Stark has totally not been sitting by his phone waiting to get an SOS signal from Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recall and Recoil

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my tireless beta, imbecamiel! You're the best!
> 
> *Forward-dated, due to author not having her act together and needing to edit things. (Forgot to add tags, and a rating, etc. - and I know I often hesitate over unrated things that don't give me an idea what to expect. :P)

Steve paused to take in the peeling paint. The battered lampshade. The abused furniture that included two cots that had generously been dubbed “beds” by the hotel's concierge.

“Homey,” was his only remark, before he settled in. “Settling in” consisting of setting down his duffel bag and leather-satchel-encased shield, and going over to open the window blinds. 

Sam didn't stop to dissect how much of that statement was Steve's make-do, Depression-era fortitude, and how much of it was his subtly dry version of 21st-century sarcasm. Probably it was some blend of both.

“Real cheerful,” Sam agreed, because the sun was shining and neither of them wanted to admit that they'd hit a depressing string of dead-ends. 

As if they'd ever really had anything to go on.

Sam set down his own duffel, watching Steve's solid silhouette against the dirty glass. 

He almost didn't hear it when Steve sighed under his breath: “We should've stayed put.”

“Russia, Germany, Switzerland...” Sam shook his head. “I don't think it matters much where we go.” He hadn't intended to sound so bitter. When Steve turned sharply with a frown on his face, he held up a hand. “That's not what I meant. Of course it _matters_ , it's just...” 

“If he doesn't want to be found, he's not going to be found.”

“Exactly.”

With his back to the light, his face in shadow, Steve looked gaunt and aged and careworn. “I think we need to change our coaxing technique.”

Sam shook his head, huffing a weary laugh more out of habit than any true amusement. “I'm fresh out of ideas, Steve. I'm sorry.”

“Hey,” Steve offered a one-shouldered shrug, “we can always find another burning building.”

“Not funny, man.”

Steve didn't look like he was trying to be funny.

 

* * *

 

The knock came at two in the morning—too early for even super soldiers to be up and at it, and just late enough that they'd both finally managed to actually fall asleep.

Sam groaned in unrepentant self-pity. It seemed just ten minutes ago he'd convinced Steve to quit pouring over the map and turn off the light. And, in this case, his “convincing” had nothing to do with diplomatic wheedling. (Sam didn't swear excessively as a habit, but super soldiers who didn't know their limits—who insisted they didn't need to sleep more than a few hours a week—were becoming one of life's most trying reasons to make an exception.)

But while Sam was still blinking his way to consciousness, Steve had already sat up and swung his feet over the side of the bed. He paused to look through the peephole, and Sam got himself vaguely upright, groping to switch on the table lamp.

“Who is it?”

Steve didn't answer. He reached to undo the latch, and the door creaked open.

Sam knew it was the Soldier by instinct rather than any tangible clue. He knew the hulking shape out in the hall was Barnes, even before Steve exclaimed softly, “Bucky.” 

Sam was wide awake (or at least on his feet) in a heartbeat.

But there was no emergency, at least not of the _guns blazing_ variety. The Soldier only stood there anticlimactically, the soft orange light of the room just brushing his shadow-scarred features. It glinted off his metal hand where it peaked out from beneath the arm of his jacket. The same tired leather jacket he'd been wearing the last time Sam had seen him.

Steve stepped to one side, creating a clear path. _Coaxing in the feral cat_ , Sam thought.

“You wanna...come in?” Steve suggested. Never had a casual invitation sounded more edged with brittle desperation.

“Yeah, c'mon,” Sam added, trying to temper that desperation with something less daunting. Something mundane and low-key. “Who could sleep in the middle of the night like a normal person, anyway?” He inserted a well-placed chuckle to diffuse any hint of annoyance. “Sleeping's for amateurs with nothin' better to do. We could order pizza instead. You know, if you guys eat that sort of thing.” The joke was wearing thin. Except, of course, there was the part where lately Steve routinely forgot that there were supposed to be three meals in a day (plus a few meals in-between for super soldiers with overactive metabolisms). 

Something told Sam that Barnes wasn't going to be a _stellar_ example of healthy eating habits, either. 

“Pepperoni?” Sam prodded. “Sausage? Or should we could continue to stand here and stare at each other like civilized people do. Yeah...let's just...stare. Eating's overrated, too.” 

He wasn't expecting a standing ovation for his hackneyed jokes, which was good, because he didn't get so much as a twitch of reaction out of either of them.

The Soldier stayed put.

In contrast, Steve radiated nervous energy. Sam bit back the urge to hiss at him to under no circumstance give in to that impulse to _hug_ the other man.

There was no way that was gonna turn out well.

Sam’s mind was teeming with questions and no answers on how to move forward in a version of events that _did_ turn out well.

The decision was taken from him as the Soldier collapsed silently forward. Steve caught him under the arms, pulling him inside towards the bed he'd just vacated.

Sam closed the door, turned on more lights, and hovered over Steve's shoulder as he eased the Soldier down onto the too-small mattress.

“Is he hurt somewhere?”

Steve was methodically checking him over, unzipping the front of the jacket and running a gentle hand over him, searching for some hidden wound. He shook his head. “I don't think so. I don't see anything to explain...” He leaned in, brushing aside strands of damp black hair. The face beneath was even thinner, more bruised-looking than Sam remembered it being. “Bucky? _Bucky_.”

It took a minute, but the Soldier's eyes slid open a crack. “I'm sorry.” He blinked sluggishly, eyes glazed. Sam recognized rock-bottom when he saw it. “I didn't...didn't know where else to go.” He voice was strained, rough with apology. “Didn't haveanyone else.”

“You should've come _sooner_. A lot sooner, Buck.” Any reproach in Steve's voice was weakened by the way his face crumpled in concern. “What's wrong?”

“They're punishing me.”

“Who? _How_?”

The Soldier shuddered, and his human fingers reached for the shoulder above the metal prosthetic. He dug his fingers into the muscles to massage it, white-knuckled, gasping, “Hurts.”

Steve's face, impossibly, softened even more. “Where you lost your arm.” His steadying hand covered Barnes' shaking hand. “Does it always hurt?”

“Not...like this. Different. S'the implant.”

“Implant? From the arm?”

“Connected to it,” Barnes confirmed. “Failsafe device.”

Steve exchanged a glance with Sam. “What does this...failsafe device do?”

“Punishes.” Another full-bodied shudder ran through Barnes. “Hurts like...burning. Getting worse.”

“The longer you disobey,” Steve realized quietly, fingers tightening on Barnes' hand. “The longer you go without checking in.”

Barnes turned bleakly tearful eyes on him. “I thought I could handle it. I could...I _did_ , but it just...goes on and _on_ , and I c-can't eat, I can't sleep, or f-focus or—”

Steve hushed him.

But Barnes wouldn't be hushed until he'd finished in a desolate whisper: “—or look after things.”

And by “things” he clearly meant “Steve.”

Steve's thumb brushed over his knuckles. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about any of it. I’ve got you, now.”

The desolate look was stubborn to vanish, but slowly it was replaced by something close to acceptance but whole continents away from peace.

Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

 

* * *

 

“We've got to fix this.”

“I'm not questioning that, Steve.” As if anyone could say “no” to that particular look of Steve's. Sam certainly couldn't have, even if he hadn't agreed. “But _how?_ ”

Steve paused in his caged-tiger pacing of the room—his attention never far from the man laid out on the cot. “Not how— _who.”_

 _“_ Alright, then: _who_?”

“Tony.”                                                

“Okay, okay—sure. Stark's a smart guy.”

Steve resumed pacing. “But we've got to get him _home_ first...”

“Again, no question, Steve. Just a lot of complications.” Sam nodded to Barnes. Even unconscious, his presence loomed menacingly over the room. “Even if we could get that arm of his past the metal detectors, he's not exactly carry-on size.”

Steve turned towards him, and Sam could see the moment the light bulb appeared over his head. “Tony,” he said again. “Tony could do that, too.” Then his expression of hope faltered. “If I can persuade him to do me a favor.”

Sam chuckled for real this time, and the release of tension felt good. He thought of Stark's visit to Steve's hospital bed in D.C., and the way he'd ranted and raved about Steve not using all of his “resources.”

“Yeah, Steve. I think he can be _persuaded.”_

 

* * *

 

Stark promised them a private jet within twelve hours, if not sooner, and Steve—for all his ingrained sense of economy—didn't say a thing about extravagance or waste.

“I didn't even tell him the whole story,” Steve mused, after he'd made the call. “I just... _asked_. Told him it was urgent.”

“Probably been waiting for that phone call for months.” 

“Huh?”

“Friends _worry_ , Steve,” Sam reminded him patiently. “You should know that. We've been gone on this wild goose chase for a while. Stark's worried.”

The idea was clearly revolutionary to Steve, but all he said was, “Oh.”

“Look, you get some sleep—I'll watch Barnes.”

Predictably, Steve refused the offer and turned the idea right back on Sam. And Sam, because he was getting to be a pro at picking his battles, only nodded his head. One of them had to at least try to get some shuteye. Besides, he was only human. Possibly the _only “_ onlyhuman” in this circle of new acquaintances he'd unwittingly stumbled into. His body desperately craved a few solid hours of sleep.

Five minutes after lying down he was out like a light.

 

* * *

 

He woke to the sound of a yelp and started up, squinting in the dim light of the standing lamp on the other side of the room.

“Bucky—Bucky,” Steve was saying, desperately, “it's okay. You're okay. It's Steve...”

Sam untangled himself from the sheets, staggering up and over to where Steve was wrangling with a struggling and clawing Barnes.

Sam came to a standstill—adrenaline through the roof—and watched as Barnes began to still under the steady torrent of reassurances.

Cautiously, Sam put a hand on Steve's shoulder, felt the muscles under his hand jerk in surprise.

“Steve? You okay?”

Steve kept holding on to his friend, gripping him by both arms, his weight shifted forward. “Yeah. Fine.”

Someone needed to teach these guys the definition of that word. Nothing about this was remotely fine. Not Barnes' nightmares. Not _Steve's_ nightmares. Not Steve having to fight his best friend, over and over again, just to prove that he cared. Just to try and reach down, and drag his friend out of whatever living hell he was caught up in.

And it was definitely not _fine_ that Steve was dripping blood onto the carpet.

Sam swore with feeling at the sight of the small throwing knife jutting out of Steve's left bicep. A thin trail of red tracked down the length of his arm.

“Steve— _Steve_? The knife.”

“What?”

Barnes looked like he was out for the count again, and Steve wasn't taking the hint. His expression was numb with incomprehension.

“Come on, big guy, you're making a mess. Get your macho self up.” Sam all but bodily hauled Steve away from the bed, pressing him down into a chair.

“He's so scared, Sam,” Steve continued, still numb-sounding, “so terrified, and I can’t seem to reach him. He...”

“—He _stabbed you in the arm_ , man.”

Finally, Steve had decency to join Sam in examining the knife in his arm. “Oh yeah.”

“ _Oh yeah_ ,” Sam parroted.

“I should've...checked him over for weapons.”

Sam sighed. “I shoulda thought of it for you. You're...” he looked at Steve's distant, bloodshot eyes, “...a little preoccupied. Now sit still. I mean it. I'm going to check him over now for any other fun _surprises_ , and then I'm going to patch you up. And you're gonna sit there, and you're gonna _like_ it, because I'm the guy whose had more than two hours of sleep in the last forty-eight hours, so I get to call the shots.”

Sam's wrath was lost on Steve, who was still calmly taking in the fact that he had a dagger lodged in his arm.

“Thanks, but it's fine.” There was that misapplied word again. Steve moved his arm experimentally with only a slight wince. “Not that serious. I could just pull it out, grab a towel to stop the bleeding...” He wisely stilled his movements under Sam's glare, catching on to the fact that one of them was about to lose his temper. “I'll wait, thanks,” he amended meekly.

As Sam gave Barnes' a thorough pat-down, it briefly occurred to him that he should suggest they secure him. He dismissed it immediately because, given Steve's current state of protective high alert, he already knew exactly how well _that_ idea would be received.

He grabbed the first-aid supplies out of his pack, and turned his attention to cleaning up the super-soldier-sized mess on aisle one.

“Seriously, Steve. You need to sleep.”

Steve grunted as Sam pulled the knife out smoothly and pressed gauze to the wound. “I'm—”

“—I swear, if the next words that come out of your mouth are 'I'm fine,' I'm going to _lose it_ in a big way. Right here, right now, not kidding around. You wanna see that, Steve? You wanna see me flip out? No, don'tyou dare _nod your head_ —don't even test me, man.”

“Okay.”               

“You're worried out of your head, and I get that. But when that jet comes in, I'm going to need you functional, 'cause there's no way I'm dragging your butt _and_ Barnes' all the way home.”

“Okay, Sam.”

“Okay then.”

“Two hours. Then you wake me up.” Steve's gaze sharpened warningly before Sam could interrupt. _Two hours_ , Sam, and you wake me up if he so much as twitches.”

“I could manage.” Sam said it before he could really stop to assess the validity of the statement.

“I don't want you to try.” Steve watched Sam wind the bandage around his arm.

Sam clenched his jaw, working to keep his temper in check. “I get that I'm not exactly a part of what you two share, but I don’t want to hurthim, Steve. He's been through hell, and he's not himself when he lashes out. The guy who risked a burning building to save your hide wouldn't turn around and knowingly stab you in the arm. I get _that_.”

Steve's expression softened. “I know you do. But I don't want him to hurt _you_ , either.”

That effectively deflated Sam's self-righteous indignation. “Just...get some sleep already, would ya, you big lug?”

The Big Lug was passed out and snoring softly into the pillow within seconds, his bandaged arm flung out to the side, hand dangling over the edge of the bed.

Sam pulled the covers over him, surveying the two unconscious men with a small sense of accomplishment. Given the way the last few weeks had been full of a big, glaring _lack_ of any accomplishment whatsoever, he'd take it.

“Right, then. All the super soldiers and super assassins are tucked in for the night. Good work, Wilson. Good work.”

He slumped into the chair Steve had just vacated and kept his eyes open through sheer willpower.

 

* * *

 

He woke Steve after three hours, and weathered Steve's glare without a twinge of remorse.

“Whoops,” he remarked, and patted Steve's good arm, “guess I lost track of the time in the middle of the peace and quiet. He's been sleepin' like baby. The non-colicky kind.” Though maybe not the innocent or angelic kind.

That successfully diverted Steve's attention away from Sam's broken promise. He settled into the chair at Barnes' side, already back in The Zone.

Sam hesitated, not for the first time wishing that he were the type to have deep words of wisdom to offer. “He knew who you were,” he said instead. He did do simple words of plainspoken truth, at least. “He came to you for help. That's a good sign.”

Steve's head dipped once in reserved agreement.

“He'll come around.”

 _He'll stop shooting you up, punching you out, and stabbing you in the arm like you're the enemy instead of his best friend,_ he left unsaid. In what mental state Barnes would emerge from sleep was anyone's guess, but Sam would hold to his first statement. Barnes had come here specifically for Steve's help. Sure, he'd been driven there by something outside his own control, but he'd _come,_ nonetheless.

Steve still didn't enthusiastically offer agreement or argument. But there was enough warmth in the way he said, “Thanks, Sam,” for Sam do know his gratitude encompassed more than a single pep talk.

“No problem.”

“The private airstrip Tony gave me directions for isn't far from here, but we should be there early. I don't know how we'll get him to come if he...” Fights. Freezes. _Runs_.

“We'll be there. We'll manage.”

Steve nodded, leaning forward, arms braced against his knees.

Sam went back to sleep, wondering how on earth they were supposed to bundle up one wild-eyed, hurting, dangerous super assassin and convince him to get on a jet bound for the heart of what he'd probably consider enemy territory.

A dull thud woke Sam next. He jackknifed upright, the sound barely registering before the _sight_ that went with the sound had him scrambling.

Barnes (no, not Barnes, not now _—_ but the Soldier once more) was up and alive, vibrating with that electric strength that rent the air with threat. He had his metal fist twisted in the front of Steve's shirt, pinning him against the wall, and his human fist was raised to strike Steve in the face. Again.

“Don't you _dare_ ,” Sam hissed, stepping into the fray, any sense of self-preservation lost in the red haze of anger. Because this was what was tearing Steve up. This wild animal side to Barnes that might never be at rest.

He couldn't protect Steve from the knowledge that Barnes might never truly be whole again. But he wasn't going to stand there and let Steve let himself get his head dented in. No way. 

And _Steve..._ The idiot could've saved himself instead of standing there making placating sounds. Soft, reasonable pleas for Bucky to listen to him—anything to break through the Soldier's delirium of rage.

Sam grabbed the Soldier's arm mid-swing, and put everything he had into holding it back. “Don't you dare,” he repeated, rage-for-rage. “I swear if you put another bruise on him, I'll break your arm.” It was a struggle to keep his grip against that rock-hard, straining muscle, but he threw his weight into it, and managed through clenched teeth: “I think you'll thank me for it, too, _James Barnes._ Because I've watched you throw yourself into a fire for that guy right there. The one you’re fixing to pound into the wall.” His shoulder ached. His head, and his heart ached. “ _C'mon_ , Barnes. You don't want to hurt him. You don't want to hurt Steve. You said it yourself—you look out for him. You protect him.”

And just like that the fight drained from the Soldier, shoulders sagging, ragged breathing slicing the air.

Sam released his arm, faced with that inexplicable change from rabid dog to beaten dog, with no pause in between for him to catch his breath.

“You're okay, Bucky,” Steve kept on with his steady words of reassurance as if nothing had happened. As if there wasn't blood coming from his nose, and from a gash across his temple. “You're safe—it was just another nightmare…”

“Steve?”

The last vestiges of the Soldier fell away, leaving no fire or fury behind. Barnes sounded lost, like a scared kid looking to a parent for comfort. _Rock-bottom_ , Sam thought again. All the way down to the miserable dregs of his dignity and sense of control. That was where Barnes was—and even though he would've done it again in a heartbeat, Sam couldn't help but feel a stab of regret for playing the tough side of this good cop/bad cop routine he and Steve had fallen into.

He'd said he wouldn't hurt Barnes—that he understood that the caged animal _wasn't really_ Barnes—but when it came down to it, he'd do what he had to in order to protect Steve from his own good intentions.

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve reached out, taking his friend by the elbow, steering him back towards the bed, “it's me. It's Steve. You with me?”

Barnes allowed himself to be guided to sit on the edge of the bed. “Steve?” he repeated, and now Sam was afforded the full effect of the dazed, bewildered eyes that were tracking Steve's face.

Steve didn't even flinch when Barnes reached out to touch his face. “I hit you.”

Steve shook his head, like he had some half-baked idea to _lie_ and say he walked into a door, or fell down the stairs. Instead, he tried to deflect. “You had a nightmare.”

“But I hit you.”

“It's okay, Bucky.”

“But—”

Steve captured his friend's hand, pulling it gently away. “Don't, Bucky. _Don't_. It wasn't you.” He was patiently emphatic. “Just go back to sleep.”

“I was asleep,” there was a quaver in his voice, a sob of confusion and weariness. “I don’t like sleeping.”

Barnes kept protesting in the same limited vocabulary—the same lost, confused, _anxious_ eyes fixed on Steve's face—even as Steve convinced him to lie back down.

“I didn’t know it was you…not this time,” Barnes whispered, still gazing up with eyes half-lidded. “I always wake up ‘n I’m hurting you. _Why_ is it always _you…_ ”

Steve tried to interrupt, but Barnes kept whispering, demanding answers from Steve, until he finally drifted off to sleep.

When Steve straightened and turned, Sam didn't even bother with words. He just pointed to the chair, and Steve sat while he retrieved the first aid supplies.

“My heart can't take another wake-up call like that.” Sam dabbed at the drying blood on Steve's face.

Steve actually smiled a little, even if the smile was cut off by a wince. “That makes two of us. He just...sprang to life, all of the sudden. No warning.” 

“Yeah, well I think we'll share the rest of guard duty for now, what do you say?" 

“I would've defended myself, Sam.” 

Sam wanted to snap at him for sounding so _reproachful._ Frankly, though, he didn't have the energy for any of that, and Steve seemed to genuinely believe himself, even if Sam knew better. He set aside one bloodstained piece of gauze in exchange for a new one. 

“I knew he'd stop,” Steve continued staunchly. “He wasn't really trying to kill me.”

“Looked to me like that was exactly like he was _trying_ to do.”

“He used his right hand, Sam. His right. Not the metal arm, made to do the most damage. On the Helicarrier, when I was his 'mission,' he didn't hesitate. He did his best to kill me. Now, he's holding back. Even in the middle of the nightmares his subconscious _knows_ he doesn't want to hurt me.”

Sam took a steady look at Steve and his bandaged arm and swelling face—and his unshakable hopeful expression—and quelled a heavy sigh. “That's...that's a good sign, too,” he agreed, and prayed he wasn't leading Steve on, enabling and encouraging delusions. 

But Steve still wasn't quite satisfied. “You didn't need to threaten him like that.”                                                            

“I did exactly what I needed to do.”

“You said you wouldn't hurt him.”

“I know. And I'm sorry—I still don't _want_ to. But someone’s got to watch your back in all of this, Steve, and I don't see anyone else.”

“ _Sam—”_

 _“—No._ You don't get to go all disapproving on me, like I'm in the wrong, here, for having an ounce of caution. He's dangerous. He's your friend, but he's also the Winter Soldier. You did what you had to do when he threatened the lives of millions of people, and I'm going to do what it takes now, when he threatens _you.”_

Steve was listening. Accepting was another matter. “But he wouldn't kill me—I just told you that.”

 _“_ He's coming back, sure. But it's going to take time, Steve. A lot of time.” Sam looked over at Barnes, and the frown etched between his brows. “You saw how it tore him up to find out he'd hit you. D'you really want to keep doing _that_ to him?”

Steve grudgingly shook his head.

Sam finished wiping the blood away and pulled out a butterfly bandage to hold the edges of the cut together. “You could start by _ducking_ , y'know. Last I checked Captain America was pretty good at hand-to-hand. You can coddle him without taking the brunt of every nightmare.” 

“Yeah.”

Sam took in his dejection, and knew what the heart of the matter was. “Don't make this into penance, Steve. Don't do that. You'll torture yourself _and_ him, thinking like that.”

“I know—I know. It's just...he's been caged and controlled enough. I want him back, more than anything. But I don't want him to feel trapped, or backed into a corner. I don't want to be just another person who demands his obedience without giving him a reason to want to stay.”

Sam thought about what he'd seen of Barnes, and his reactions to Steve, and knew he could say with all certainty: “You're not anything like them, and he knows it. You said it yourself—he's pulling his punches.” He put a hand on Steve's shoulder, squeezing it reassuringly. “Doesn't mean you should stand there and let 'em hit the mark. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

 

* * *

 

In the end it was both easier and harder than Sam had imagined it would be to get Barnes to come with them.

A couple hours before the jet was scheduled to arrive Steve woke him up, successfully checking Barnes' fight-or-flight response to consciousness with more of the same soothing words he'd been using all evening.

Barnes sat on the edge of the bed, and Steve crouched down at eye-level.

“I want to help you. You know that, right?”

Barnes nodded his head.

“But in order to help you, I need you to come with me. I have friends who can help you, but they're back in the States. In New York City. I need you to come with me—do you understand?” 

Barnes nodded his head again.

Sam knew that had been too easy, and Steve clearly felt the same.

“There's a jet coming to take us there. We need to get on that jet in order to get there. In order to get home.” Steve put his hand over Barnes' human hand. “It's not far away. We could walk to the airstrip. But then you're going to need to get in the jet, and not...” he scrambled for words kinder than “totally flip out,” and finally just sighed, and said instead, “Can you trust me on this, Buck? _Will_ you trust me, and do what I tell you to for now?”

“I trust you.”

“Good.” Steve didn't even try to hide his stark relief. “That's good.” He waited another minute, assessing Barnes. “Your arm hurting?”

Barnes shook his head. “It comes and goes.”

“Alright. Let's go, then.”

They got him upright, and each took up a position on either side of him. Sam had already paid for the room, knowing that once they got started they couldn’t afford any more delays than were absolutely necessary. Steve slung the satchel with his shield in it over his shoulder, and took up both their duffels in order to free Sam up to support Barnes, if need be.

But, while Barnes stumbled a bit, he kept his head down and his feet moving as they exited by the back door and made their way through the streets. 

They kept to deserted side-streets all the way to the small airstrip, managing to avoid drawing any unwanted attention, and Barnes didn't say a single word while he waited by Steve's side, docile and compliant, immune to inquiring eyes.

He stiffened when they actually stepped out onto the tarmac. He stiffened more as they approached the stairs that led up into the jet.

“Buck?” Steve put a hand on his arm, not to propel him, but to ground him. “You with me?”

“With you,” Barnes said, and Sam saw him struggle with the animal fear, forcing it away as he followed Steve forward.

Once inside, Barnes remained glued to Steve's side, sitting down next to him on the plush leather seat and staring ahead at the table in front of him without acknowledging the red-lipped, smiling stewardess. 

Steve let their shoulders touch, and let him stay as he was, joining Sam in treating their glowering third companion like a non-issue. The stewardess glanced his way once or twice, and took in Steve's less-than-mint condition, but she didn't seem taken aback. Since Steve hadn't even told Stark the whole story Stark could hardly have informed the flight crew of the situation, but clearly she'd come prepared for a disreputable-looking trio of passengers.

After welcoming them and offering drinks, she left them alone. And it was a good thing, too, because Barnes freaked during takeoff. Thankfully, it wasn't a freak-out of the ripping-a-hole-in-the-wall variety, but it was bad enough. He went still, and wide-eyed with the panic of the acutely claustrophobic. Or the acrophobic.

Steve gripped Barnes' arm steadying. “Don't think about it. Look at me, Buck. Think about—about anything else. Home-cooked meals. Pretty girls. Dancing.”

Barnes’ rapid breathing didn't calm. Home-cooked meals, pretty girls, and dancing were all clearly far-removed concepts that his imagination couldn't take hold of.

Steve's grip tightened. “I've got you.”

Barnes was finally listening, at least—eyes focused on Steve, instead of zoned-out on the sound of the jet rumbling around them.

“I forgot everything for so long,” Barnes rasped. “Forgot what it felt like to...fall.” He shuddered. “Think...I remember now.”

Steve's expression remained soft, but there wasn't just sympathy in his eyes, there was empathy that gave Sam a glimpse into fears of his own. Nightmares that were founded in very real memories. “You're not going to fall, Buck.”

“You fell, too,” Barnes realized with a fresh shudder.

“Neither of us is going to fall.”

“Hey,” Sam interjected, settling in his seat, “if you could include me in that number, too, I'd appreciate it. It's not that I don't have the utmost faith in whoever Stark's got piloting this thing, but I'm used to having my own personal set of wings.”

Steve smiled across at him, and held on to Barnes as they lifted off.

 

* * *

 

About an hour into their flight, Barnes jolted out of his stupor. Sam was prepared for violence—another nightmare, maybe, or a flashback of some kind—but he wasn't prepared for the soft noise of stifled distress.

But Steve was. “It's hurting?” he asked automatically. 

Barnes nodded his head, expression pinched. “Gonna be a...bad one.”

Sam exchanged a glance with Steve, and, between him and Barnes, Sam didn't know which one looked more like a drowning man.

Barnes groaned, and tucked his head down, hiding his face, drawing himself inward and leaning away from Steve. 

Steve wasn't having any of it. He put his arm around Barnes, drawing him right back. Gingerly, with the utmost care, his fingers rested lightly on the metal plate that covered his friend's shoulder. 

Barnes stiffened for a moment. Then, by slow increments, he accepted it—and more than accepted it, took comfort from it, turning towards it instead of pulling away. “It'll get better,” he murmured, and Sam realized with a pang that he was trying not to worry Steve. _A little too late for that_ , he thought wearily, but couldn't help but feel an increasing understanding of Steve's affection for the guy.

However broken he was, the shattered fragments of James Barnes were worth putting back together again.

Once again, Sam felt like an intruder on the scene. Barnes was making more small sounds of pain, muffling them against Steve's chest. His head lowered further and further, dark hair curtaining pale skin.

Steve rested his chin on the top of his head, arms protective and gentle even as he flinched at every noise as if in physical pain himself. Sam caught his desperate gaze, trying to imbue his own expression with reassurance. _We'll fix this_.

Steve blinked away the bright shine of tears, and nodded, and held on with new determination. (And Sam didn't feel like quite so much of an intruder, after all.)

 

* * *

 

“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?”

“Tony,” Steve said, and, for him, the warning look he gave was downright surly.

Tony held up a hand. “Sorry. Sorry. But—cleverness of that well-timed remark aside—the question is valid. I need to know everything you know. Eliminate the simple solutions, and if they don't do the trick, the whatever remains, however impossible... Well,” he shrugged, “we'll just have to find a way to make it possible.”

Sam could see that Steve was dragging again. Almost as much as Barnes. _Almost_. The flight had been enough of a nightmare. Convincing Barnes to get in the limousine to take them from the airport to Stark Tower had been nightmare number two. And nightmare number three had occurred, right on schedule, when Barnes had caught sight of the lab that Stark had led them to. 

All of Stark's amiable welcomes and low-key chatter had done nothing to prevent the wild panic that had set in when he'd seen the stainless steel tables and anonymous mechanical contraptions the room contained. He'd bolted.

Fortunately (and Sam used the word loosely, because none of this was exactly _fortunate),_ before he could actually do any escaping, he'd all but passed out. Steve caught him as he fell, and when Stark had suggested they go some place “a little more informal,” Sam had helped Steve cart the semi-lucid Soldier through the ostentatious hallways and into the definitely more comforting rec-room-style living space to which Stark had guided them.

Really, Stark had been much more down-to-earth about all of this than Sam had expected.

“Come on, Cap,” Stark added, placating, “work with me, here.”

In the face of his reasonableness and clear desire to help, Steve relented, leaning back against the sofa cushions, one eye always on Barnes, who sat groggily slumped beside him. “I asked him about removing the arm—and he's tried. But it's not madefor him to be able to remove it himself, at least not easily without access to any tools. I certainly didn’t see any kind of… release, or anything.”

“Ah.” Stark pursed his lips, standing with his arms crossed and his posture casual, as if injured super assassins with mechanical arms were the sort of puzzle he dealt with on an everyday basis. And Sam supposed, being Iron Man, the mechanical arm part was, at least, somewhat familiar territory.

Sam was just thankful that Tony had taken everything in stride, showing little more than a flicker of surprise when he'd discovered the nature of Steve's urgent request. Still. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together, especially given the man's notorious curiosity and ability to snoop, so he probably _hadn't_ been surprised. Or who knew, maybe Steve had had a talk with him before taking off for parts unknown and just straight-up told him about Barnes. Given what he'd seen in the hospital room there was clearly some level of friendship between Steve and Tony, but he couldn't tell exactly where they were at in the “actually trusting each other enough to talk about things” department—as opposed to “just” trusting each other enough to fight side-by-side. Relationships were weird, and the people concerned here were weirder than most.

“JARVIS,” Stark said abruptly, then, “Emergency Food Protocol, numero three.”

“Chinese takeout, for four, Sir?”

“Make that five. Bruce is around here somewhere.” Stark hesitated, darting a look at Barnes' gaunt face and thousand-yard stare, then Steve's haggard expression. They were two miserable bookends, really, and Tony clearly concurred. “Actually, you know what? I'm starving. Make that order enough to feed at least seven. Maybe eight.” He waved a hand. “Whatever. Order a lot, JARVIS, one of everything. Two, of the best stuff. Use that uncommonly awesome discretion I programmed you to have.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Stark flashed them a showy smile, pleased with his own extravagant hospitality. “All the local places know to get the food to Stark Tower pronto if they wanna earn the big tips. The _really_ big tips.”

“Nice,” Sam said, unstinting in his flattery, because he was hungry. Ravenous, actually, now that he thought about it.

Soon after, Bruce materialized out of “somewhere,” and judging by the toolbox he came armed with he hadn't come unprepared for the situation.

“Steve,” he said, warmly, and the warmth didn't diminish when he added, “Sam,” like their acquaintance consisted of far more than one hospital room conversation.

In fact, Stark— _Tony—_ had treated him right from the get-go like a natural part of the equation. Sam had expected to have to explain his presence, but neither of them seemed surprised to see him. 

“Bruce,” Steve greeted, and almost shyly nodded to Barnes. “Bucky, this is Doctor Banner—another friend. You can trust him, too.”

Barnes wordlessly scrutinized Banner in the same manner he'd scrutinized Stark a little while before. There was no hostility in his eyes, but no friendliness either.

Bruce set the toolbox discretely out of the way and approached the couch with a sort of casual directness, like a party-goer just ambling up to another party-goer, without any agenda in mind. “Glad to meet you,” he said to Barnes, and to Steve, “How you doing these days, Cap?” He was looking at the bruising and the butterfly bandage—and, no doubt, the haunted look in his eyes, too.

“I've been better,” Steve admitted, which made Sam look at Banner in a new light, because clearly Steve really did trust him if he was capable of moving on from “I'm fine” all the way to “I've been better.”

“You've certainly looked better,” Tony generously volunteered his opinion. “You get into a fight with a revolving door?”

Steve was too preoccupied to take the bait. He looked at his friend with open worry (the same way he'd been looking at him since the moment Barnes had collapsed into their hotel room). Bucky had clammed up since the panic attack, his expression stony, and Sam only realized then how much progress they'd been making with him. His lack of participation in the conversation was a marked change from before, when it had been just him and Steve listening.

Sam could only hope this didn't mean they'd taken a massive step backwards when it came to earning his trust. 

The food arrived in miraculously short order, and Tony went about distributing it, all the while filling the air with his unique brand of strangely companionable stream-of-consciousness chatter.

After taking stock of the ridiculous number of cartons Tony beamed: “JARVIS, I'm proud of you.”

“I do strive, Sir.”

Bruce and Sam started in on the Sweet 'N Sour, Tony began to decimate a carton of Bourbon Chicken, and Steve and Bucky found themselves with heaping plates of beef with vegetables in some kind of dark sauce. 

For a few long seconds Steve just stared at it like he didn't know how it had gotten there, but then the smell must've hit him because he was devouring it like he hadn't eaten in weeks. And maybe he hadn't, not properly. 

But all the while he was watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye, willing him do more than stare at his own plate. 

Stark was still talking about something (Sam was lost, but Banner kept nodding politely in response as he ate), leaving Sam feeling freed from any need to keep up his end of the social obligation to make conversation (and “social obligations” didn't strike him as something this group really bothered with, anyways).

So he kept his attention on Steve and Bucky. 

And when, exactly, had he his subconscious decided it wasn't “Soldier,” or “Barnes,” but _Bucky_? He didn't even know the guy beyond a few small exchanges—and yet, somehow, he did know him better than that, if only vicariously through playing witness to Steve's unwavering affection for him. But maybe it was the reverse, too _,_ that was humanizing him in Sam's eyes, making him more than just _the Soldier_. Bucky's loyalty to Steve was a force in its own right. Sam had known that the moment he'd seen him emerge from the burning building, carrying Steve like he'd never let him go again.

That knowledge pressed in again, now, as he watched the subtle operation Bucky was performing. To all appearances he was just picking at his food, occasionally chewing on a peace of meat or broccoli with an unreadable expression on his face. But whenever he thought no one was looking, his fork would dart out to Steve's plate.

Sam blinked in surprise the first time he noticed. The second time, he realized what was happening and had to duck his head to hide a smile as he watched mushroom after mushroom being systematically smuggled from Bucky's plate to Steve's. 

Sam had learned that Steve liked them—sautéed, stir-fried, any way they came—he'd seen Steve devour them like a delicacy he’d been deprived of his whole life. The fact that Bucky clearly also remembered that Steve liked them should've been the smallest sign of reclaimed memories. But, somehow, it seemed more momentous than that. Big friendships were built on the little things. The “in” jokes, and the shared experiences, and the solid knowledge of those tiny details of preference that made up a whole person. 

Bucky Barnes had known Steve Rogers, through and through, and he'd remember it all again. Sam had never been more certain.

When Bucky caught Sam watching, and froze—only to unfreeze again at Sam's nod of understanding—it made Sam's chest constrict with something halfway between stifled laughter and a stab of emotion he couldn't quite explain. All he knew was, you didn't mess with the kind of loyalty those two had for each other. You just didn't.

Sam dared anyone to even _try_ to mess with it on his watch.

The fact that Bucky could read him at a glance, and _trusted_ him at a glance, only furthered the sense of having unwittingly entered into that small universe that James Barnes inhabited. That universe so small it only contained a single friend—until now, Sam hoped.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve exclaimed in exasperation when, a minute later, he'd caught on to the miracle of the endless supply of mushrooms on his plate. “You need to eat.”

“ _You_ need to eat,” Bucky muttered back. “Vegetables. And meat. Lots of meat.”

Steve angled his plate out of Bucky's reach just in time to evade another food gift. “I'm fine, Bucky.” More gently, he added almost under his breath, “The Depression, and the War, and rationing—they're all over. You don't have to worry about me getting enough. I'm not sick or starving anymore, and there's plenty for both of us.” He nodded to the open carton Stark had pointedly deposited between them on the couch. “See? There's more.”

Sam noted the way Stark and Banner were very carefully _not_ watching the exchange. He also noticed the way Bruce's eyes softened with a deep and open sympathy, and how—with each reassurance Steve offered—Tony's jaw clenched a little tighter (as if to repress a rant he would've liked to address to the Depression for being such a _jerk_ to a lot of decent human beings who didn't deserve that kind of baggage).

Yeah, Sam could easily find himself warming up to these guys, too.

Bucky poked at his food, grumbling moodily, “You look kind of sick to _me_.” His voice dared anyone to challenge his supreme right, as the resident Steve Rogers Expert in the room, to make that call.

“Hey, take a look in a mirror, you big hypocrite,” Steve teased, nudging Bucky's shoulder gently. “How about you eat, and I eat, and we both get better.”

Bucky ate (and watched Steve eat, and vice versa), and Tony pretended to seamlessly pick up where he'd left off talking, and for a while they were almost companionable. 

Trust Stark to be the first to confront the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the mute assassin on the couch.

“So,” he said, picking up a slender chrome-framed tablet, and sauntering over to the couch, “that’s awesome.”

Bucky looked from Stark to his metal arm. At Steve’s suggestion he’d removed his jacket shortly after they’d arrived, and the black t-shirt only covered to mid-bicep, half a red star showing beneath the sleeve.

To Sam’s surprise, Bucky actually replied, with a hint of irony, “Thanks.”

“But, from what Cap’s said, I take it that it comes with a few drawbacks. How often does it zap you?”

Tony’s bluntness should’ve been impersonal and tactless. But Sam had to admit (and Steve and Banner by their silence concurred) that it appeared to be oddly effective at bridging any hostilities, because Bucky showed no signs of any of his usual growling or snarling.

“Used to come and go.” Bucky paused, eyes going a little distant. “Now, it’s pretty much all the time.”

“You should’ve said something,” Steve interjected softly. “I thought it was over—before, on the jet. I didn’t know you were still hurting.”

Bucky’s lips twisted into smile that was only faintly grimace-like, the ghost of more irony playing out in his eyes, and Sam saw a big brother amused at the idea of his kid brother trying to play protector. “It’s fine, Steve. Not as bad as that right now. The bad.. _zaps_ —they still come and go.”

“Alright, good to know. And because I’m not inhuman, or a moron,” Tony said, hand flitting over the touch-screen, “I’m not at any time going to ask you to rate your pain on a scale from one to ten. However, in the course of our tampering, let me know long before you get anywhere near the _oh-God-kill-me-now_ stage, right? I mean it.” His gaze sharpened on Bucky. “Long, _long_ before that stage. There’s no telling what tampering might do, and I need to know if I’m making anything worse. Also, being that I am a certified baby when it comes to enduring pain stoically, there will be absolutely no judging if you have to tap out.”

Much to Steve’s obvious relief, Bucky simply nodded, impassively accepting of the speech. If there was fear, he didn’t show it. Without being asked, he removed his shirt, turning to offer Stark better access to his left arm.

Sam was beginning to be quite at ease with being something of the odd man out, the one without a proper right to be present, but this time he felt the need to offer, “I don’t need to stay if you’d rather I left.”

“No, stay,” Bucky said quickly, sounding nearly desperate. His look included Steve, silently entreating. _Don’t leave me alone with faces I’ve hardly learned._

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve said firmly.

“No problem. You got it.” Sam leaned back in his chair, relieved to see the trapped-animal look fade from Bucky’s eyes as quickly as it’d come. “Just lemme know if you need anything. ‘Cause I’m good for things like fetching drinks, and doing a bit of comic relief.”

“Sorry, Sam,” Bruce said dryly, opening the toolbox he’d brought, “Tony kind of has this permanent dibs on the limelight." 

“I can share,” Tony didn’t look up from the tablet, his outrage mixed with absentmindedness. “Don’t listen to him, Wilson. I’m a perfect host. I let my guests at have at least ten percent of the best lines.” 

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Just gimme my cue.”

“Sarcasm’s nice for starters. But, seriously, don’t hold back.”

“Everything is also a competition,” Bruce continued as an aside.

Tony clearly felt the need to have his own pointed aside, and directed it at Bucky, taking a seat on the coffee table in front of the couch so as to be at eye-level. “Bruce is basically everybody’s nanny. Our very own housemother, really, when the rest of the team’s in town and decides to bunk at the Tower. But, between you and me, he’s a total soft touch. A complete teddy bear. Except when he’s doing the rage monster thing. Then he pretty much only listens to Cap, and victory high-fives the rest of us in the head.”

Bruce didn’t actually roll his eyes as he leaned over to hand Tony some kind of cord with a couple of clips at one end. “I have absolutely no idea why he’d have that reaction to you, Tony.” 

“That makes two of us,” Tony said, setting the cord down next to him as he continued to poke distractedly at his tablet. “Seriously, what gives, Steve? You been bribing the Hulk with candy when the rest of us aren’t looking? What’s the secret?”

 

“There isn’t one. I just…ask, and he listens.”

 

“C’ _mon_ , there’s got to more to it than that,” Tony whined. “Share with the class, Mr. _Team Player._ ” He addressed Bucky again, “First he slays a metal dragon with the Excalibur of all magical alien hammers—a hammer that no one but the God of Thunder or those _too good for this mortal earth_ are even supposed to be able to use—and now he’s got his very own BFF Hulk eager to do all the heavy lifting for him. That’s not to mention the way the Black Widow, Ice Queen Extraordinaire, doteson him to an excessive degree. She takes him clothes shopping, for crying out loud. So tell me, has Captain Goody-Two-Shoes over there always been this much of an overachieving showoff?”

Bucky actually smirked at that, slow and ominous. Whatever memories he’d regained, he had enough to respond with level certainty: “Worse.”

Steve made a bewildered noise of protest. 

Tony glowed approvingly at his newfound source. “Please, do elaborate. I require entertainment while I work.” Sticking the end of the cord into one of the ports on his tablet, Tony held up the other, showing Bucky the clips. “I’m just gonna attach this to the shoulder plate of your arm so I can get some readings on it, get a better idea of what we’re dealing with. You shouldn’t feel a thing. Okay with you?”

Bucky nodded a silent acquiescence to the request. He twitched a bit when Tony first made contact with his arm, but otherwise didn’t move or react. Rather than watching what Tony was doing, he turned his head slightly to stare at the wall.

Sam frowned. Something about the reaction bothered him. The feeling was only confirmed by the blank expression that came over Bucky’s face as Tony started to work, the utter stillness and silence in which he sat there, as if his mind had gone somewhere else, leaving his body to sit there unused, a broken machine waiting for repairs.

Tony was focused on his tablet, tapping at the screen and muttering to himself. The only part Sam understood was a remark about the arm obviously being well designed, since it was insulated enough that he didn’t get shocked by coming into contact with it. After a few seconds, however, Tony seemed to suddenly realize that Bucky had failed to do anything approaching elaborating on the oh-so-juicy dirt he must have on Captain America. Glancing up, he seemed startled when he caught sight of Bucky’s face.

The man might seem like a classic self-obsessed narcissist, but Sam had to give him credit—he was way more aware than he let on. That much was obvious by the jumble of expressions, apologetic and regretful, that crossed his face. 

“Buck?” 

That softest of words, coming from Steve, was enough to at least bring some lucidity back into Bucky’s eyes.

“You’re here, with us,” Steve said, edging closer, hesitant and hovering, but still firm. “Not back there, wherever they took you. Whatever they did to you…”

Bucky didn’t answer. But he was looking at Steve. Hearing Steve. And when Steve’s voice turned gruff with restrained tears, Bucky’s flesh-and-blood hand shot out to grab him by the wrist, holding on tightly, his expression wordlessly willing Steve to be comforted—willing _himself_ to be comforted, too.

Tony didn’t need to be told to keep working. With only a side-glance at the two of them, he began to efficiently remove metal plating, Banner standing by to assist with the tools.

The circuitry was mind-boggling in its intricacy. It was beautiful, delicate, and solid all at once: a piece of bionic artistry. Tony and Bruce both stared at it for a moment without bothering to hide their awe, but with yet more of his unexpected tact, Tony wisely kept any remarks down to a low exchange of muttered nerd-talk between the two of them.

Tony asked permission again before he released the arm from the shoulder socket, waited for Bucky’s nod, and continued, head bent, fingers precise and deft as they worked, and tested, and lifted, and—

The slight click and hiss of the arm disengaging from the mechanical socket made them all start.

Bucky was left starkly one-armed, shivering and exposed. But it was Steve who looked suddenly stricken, as if he’d only just realized _right then_ his friend had actually lost an arm.

Bruce carefully set the mechanical arm down on the black antistatic pad where he’d laid out the rest of the plating and pieces in a neat row.

“Alright,” Tony’s warm voice thawed some of the tension, “let’s see what we’ve got here…”

Sam really, really didn’t intend to doze off. It was just that it had been a _seriously long time_ since he’d had a proper night’s sleep, and something about the combination of the soft chair, a full stomach, and the techno-babble…

 

* * *

 

Sam woke to a crash, and the now all-too-familiar sound of Steve begging Bucky to listen to him, and decided he couldn’t afford to sleep anymore if this was the scene he was going to wake up to every time.

Stark was backing away from the couch, both hands raised in the universal non-threatening gesture, his tools scattered on the floor in front of him. He was glancing sidelong, warily, at Bruce. Thankfully, apart from the tension they were all feeling, Dr. Banner showed no signs of losing control himself (although Sam didn’t really know what signs to look for, other than rage—and, really, it was hard to imagine Banner being anything but tranquil). 

“Bucky—Bucky, talk to me,” Steve pleaded, and like Stark he wasn’t trying to touch the assassin, although he hadn’t moved from his seat next to his friend.

“I’m _tired_ of being touched.” Bucky was breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. “I Don’t. Like. It.”

“Okay, sure,” Stark said, amiably, “I can appreciate that. I prefer to keep my personal space personal, too. Should’ve called a little timeout—but, y’know, I get kind of excited when I’m close to a solution.”

“You can fix it?”

The hope in Steve’s question helped to soothe Bucky’s flair of temper. Bucky looked to Stark with a similar interest, though it was buried under a certain amount of trembling exhaustion and shadowy animosity.

“Of course I can. Did you doubt me, Cap?” 

Steve shook his head. “Wouldn’t have brought him to you if I had. I’m just relieved you’re close.”

The gratification flickered quickly across Stark’s face, leaving behind straight forward preening. “No problem. I’ll have it done in a jiffy, now.” But he still didn’t move. “You need to go outside and take a breather, first?”

Bucky resolutely shook his head, his breathing slowing once more. But he clearly had to steel himself afresh to let the work progress. “Just do it.”

Stark set back to work, and a minute later as they resumed their waiting, Sam relaxed again.

Too soon. 

With a yelp, and a fizzle and _snap_ of electricity, Stark fell backwards. They all started forward, but he was already sitting up, cradling his arm and wincing too theatrically to be in serious straits.

“ _Ouch_.”

Bucky looked down at him coolly and raised an eyebrow in a clear _you have no idea_.

Stark grimaced. “Well. I do like a good finale. That ought to do it.”

“How do you feel? Has it stopped?” Steve scanned Bucky’s face anxiously.

But Sam could already see the answer in the clarity, the _focus_ , in Bucky’s eyes. Eyes no longer distracted by the distant hum of pain.

“Yes,” he breathed, and the note of relief put a broad grin on Stark’s face that was only a little conceited and self-congratulatory. 

Not that any of them were about to hold pride against him, not at that moment.

 

* * *

 

“He’ll be safe here, Sam. I’ll look out for him. No one—not Hydra, not the Council, not _anyone_ —is going to get their hands on him.”

Sam still couldn’t quite wrap his head around the fact that he was there, in Stark Tower, sitting in the lap of luxury after having spent months touring every rat-infested alley in Europe.

He shook his head as he took in the posh living space around them. “Stark’s a generous guy.” 

Steve’s expression softened. “Compulsively so. He rubs a lot of people the wrong way, but once you get to know him—” he broke off, rubbing at his eyes for all the world like a sleepy toddler. “Well, let’s just say he’s got qualities that he tries real hard to hide from the world. I trust him. I trust his word on this. Bucky will be safe.”

The way he kept saying that, Sam couldn’t help but thing he was still trying to convince himself. Maybe not about Bucky’s physical safety, but about something far more difficult and precarious. 

“We can lock him up like Rapunzel, keep him safe from all outsiders…”

“But?” Steve clearly didn’t want to hear what Sam had to say, but he stood his ground because he didn’t run from fights.

“I’m more worried about the _inside_ of his brain right now. You talked to him about this?”

“He was so exhausted after Tony finished on his arm—fell right asleep, almost before we could get him to the guest room. He’s practically comatose.”

“You can’t make this decision for him. You can’t _tell_ him to stay.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “I know. But you keep saying it yourself—he came to _me_. He knows me.”

“Steve…”

“He’ll stay. He has to.”

“You’ve got me convinced, man. I’m on your side.”

The tension bled from him. “That’s…good. That’s all I needed to hear.”

It never ceased to be gratifying to hear Captain America say things like that to him, _Sam Wilson_. But, the thing was, Steve had become more than a national icon. He was a friend. A friend Sam didn’t want to see hurt again. And something told him that “hurt” was still definitely on the agenda. He couldn’t bring himself to keep warning Steve when all he wanted to do was give him reasons to smile again. But not saying anything felt like another kind of betrayal.

The Soldier had sought out Steve Rogers for help, but Bucky Barnes was still a long way from coming home.

 

* * *

 

Sam didn’t know Tony Stark that well, but he had a feeling that freak-outs weren’t that uncommon a thing for him.

Genuine _I’m-at-my-wits-end_ panic, though? Maybe not quite so much.

The fact that he’d chosen to call on _Sam_ first, instead of Steve, spoke volumes about how much he was dreading the conversation.

It was just past three o’clock in the morning, and Tony was rumpled and groggy as if he’d fallen asleep in his clothes in the middle of pulling an all-night work project. Sam figured he probably wasn’t too far from the mark. Genii seemed to have a tendency towards insomnia.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen. It can’t have happened. It’s impossible It’s—”

“Just lay it out for me, okay? Also, do me a favor,” Sam added, “and stand still. You’re making me dizzy.”

Stark pulled to a stop mid-way across the living room, rounding on him, not angrily. There was a wild look of ready apology in his eyes, and Sam didn’t think that could possibly be normal for Tony Stark, either. “The Soldier—”

“—Bucky,” that was Steve, coming into the room with his back ramrod straight, the intensity in his eyes showing that he was just this side of wild panic, himself. “What about Bucky?”

Neither of them asked what form of telepathy had informed Steve to come running.

Tony froze, deer-in-the-headlights. “I lost him. He’s gone.” He quickly realized how that might be misconstrued, and clarified, “He left the Tower an hour ago.”

“But _how_?”

The note of disbelief made Tony cringe as if in expectation of a blow, emotional or physical. “Out the window.” 

“Out the window?” Sam repeated in disbelief of his own. “How? Using bed sheets?”

“The windows don’t even open,” Steve interjected.

Tony’s laugh was tinged with hysteria. “They do now, at least in Barnes’ newly-remodeled suite.”

“I believe I am to blame for this, Captain Rogers,” JARVIS’s voice came, soft and subdued.

Sam had never heard a computer sound guilty before.

Tony shook his head. “We all agreed to let him have his way and give him some privacy when he started dismantling the cameras, JARVIS.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“It seemed like the humane thing to do,” Tony said, gritting his teeth and raking a hand through his hair. 

“It was the humane thing to do,” Sam asserted. “We all agreed—he’s been locked up and scrutinized enough.” Sam had seen the desperate, haunted look in Bucky’s eyes as he’d torn the security camera apart. He’d still vouch for their choice to let Barnes make his _own_ choices.

“Yeah, well, it looks like we’re past calling the shots,” Tony said bitterly. He darted a sidelong look at Steve—silent and unreadable—and under his breath said, “I’m sorry.”

Steve started from his trance, shaking his head. “Not your fault, either. Thanks for your help, Tony. I mean that. But I’ve—I’ve got to go. I need—” 

Sam grabbed his arm. “—Not again, Steve. No.”

“But, Bucky…”

“Is gonna be sticking around New York.”

Steve’s gaze searched Sam’s face for signs of a lie. For signs that Sam was just placating him with what he wanted to hear. “How can you be sure?”

“Because,” Sam said patiently, “ _New York_ is where Steve Rogers is going to stay put.”

Steve hung his head, and Sam let go of his arm, but it certainly wasn’t the most satisfying victory of his life.

“But he remembered. How could he leave after he _remembered_?”

Sam exchanged a look with Tony, but for a change Tony was keeping out of it, generously leaving all the talking to Sam.

“He’s remember _ing_ , Steve. That’s not the same thing as arriving. Whatever he does know about James Barnes and Steve Rogers is all jumbled up in the Winter Soldier, and it’s going to take time for him to sort through that mess.”

“He saved me, and then he came to me for help.” 

 _Impulses,_ Sam thought. Instincts, and muscle memory. It didn’t follow that Bucky remembered much more than snatches of their history together—it didn’t follow that he knew much beyond a feeling, a _need_ , to protect Steve and to look to Steve for protection in return. He’d saved Steve from drowning—after shooting him, in the first place. And then he’d left Steve on the shore. And then he’d come back to save Steve from being burned to death. And then he’d _left_ , and then he’d come back, and he’d _left_ …

The pattern of trust given, and trust snatched back, was plain as day. 

“It’s going to take time,” Sam said, at last, “you got to keep giving him time. He’ll come back when he’s ready to come back.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“The pattern’s clear, man. James Barnes might inhabit a limited universe right now, but you’re right at the center of that universe, and he’s not about to leave orbit.”

“Nice metaphor,” Tony commented, still subdued and sincere, and looking at Steve as if he expected the man to shatter.

But Steve didn’t shatter. He nodded, trustingly, willing to believe, and Sam prayed to God that the look of hope he’d just put back on Steve’s face wasn’t based on nothing.

 

* * *

 

The Soldier collapsed the moment he was in the cover of the alley. His human hand was cut and cramping from gripping onto handholds, but his metal arm had been useful for holding his weight, for keeping him from plummeting twenty floors to splatter on the pavement below.

He shivered, and clutched his human arm to his chest, and tried to block out the internal scream that had built with every step he’d taken away from that Tower.

Steve was back there. Steve, who called him “Bucky” until the name seemed to fit. Steve, who looked at him with concern that had no beginning or end. 

Steve, who found a way to take away the pain.

He knew Steve as inexplicably as he knew that the sun would rise tomorrow. There was no discovery. No epiphany. Just a _knowing_ that Bucky had quit trying to pretend didn’t exist, because that knowledge felt like the only tangible thing he had to hold on to.

Memories linked to Steve bubbled to the surface unpredictably. He said things about _before_ without really knowing how he knew there had even _been_ a “before.” There was a history book in his head, full of everything he needed to know, but the words on the page were still mostly gibberish without context. The events were about someone else. 

All he knew was that he kept hurting Steve, and he needed to get as far away from him as possible, because he hated hurting Steve more than he could ever remember hating anything (even the condescending man who’d talked to him like he was a child, and controlled his world, and ripped just-glimpsed memories from his brain).

They stood out in his memories, both of them. Two men. Two worlds. He wanted the world that Steve belonged to, not the other one. The want ached inside, burning like his arm had burned until Steve had fixed it.

And still everything inside of him had agreed that it was best for him to leave. Best for _Steve_.

But now that he’d left, everything inside of him screamed _wrong_ , _wrong_ , _wrong_. Don’t leave Steve. Steve doesn’t look after himself. Steve’s an idiot. _Steve doesn’t think_ , _you have to think for him, or he’ll get himself killed_.

That’s your job.

Whoever he was, he decided, that much he remembered. That much, he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading (and for all the feedback you guys have left on the series)! 
> 
> Despite becoming a little distracted this last week by the process of getting the ball rolling on a new round of prompting at [avengersgen](avengersgen.livejournal.com) (/"sneaky" comm promo), I'm still working on future stories for this series. Don't know where it'll end, but I'm not there yet. ;D


End file.
